Tradition
by Ael L. Bolt
Summary: The Marauders have left one hell of a legacy. A quick fic. Short and sweet! NOT a MWPP fic, unfortunately, as it takes place in Harry's sixth year or so. But amusing nonetheless. My first try at real HP fanfiction!


Tradition  
By Ael L. Bolt  
  
Rating: PG for Latin swear words  
Genre: Humor/Mystery  
Keywords: Marauders, NOT MWPP  
Time frame: Around Harry's sixth year at Hogwarts (1996 or so)  
Summary: The Marauders have left one hell of a legacy. A quick fic. Short and sweet!  
  
Mrs. Norris usually prowled the corridors, looking for unsuspecting (and unrespecting) students out of bed at night. Her meows would bring her master, Argus Filch, and the gruesome-looking squib would delight in terrorizing the children. The students, even the seventh-years, didn't dare touch the mangy cat, out of fear of Filch's wrath. No one had forgotten how Filch had nearly strangled a nearby boy (gee, are we all surprised that it happened to be Harry Potter?) when his cat was Petrified several years before.  
  
Therefore, she was quite surprised when she suddenly found herself pinned to a nearby portrait.  
  
An unseen hand brushed over the cat's fur, and there was a whisper of "Stercus accidit." Mrs. Norris didn't know it, but that happened to be a spell. A very odd spell, to say the least, the effects of which would not be seen until daybreak.  
  
With another soft call of "Wingardium Leviosa," the cat found herself chained to the chandelier by her tail and stiff as a board. As she swung there, appearing as a furry pendulum, quiet laughter filled the otherwise empty hall.  
  
Next to the wall, a shimmer of fabric appeared out of nowhere as three dark figures pulled off an invisibility cloak. The tallest of the three glanced around the hallway, wand at the ready. "Coast is clear," a baritone voice reported.  
  
"Good. D'you have the paint, Softpaws?" a tenor voice asked, issued from the second-tallest silhouette.  
  
"Right here," the short alto replied. "Are you sure we should be doing this, Trigger?"  
  
"What could go wrong?" the tenor asked. "Those goofball brothers of mine do this sort of thing all the time. Besides, remember the Marauders?" As if a thought had just occured to him, he turned to the tall baritone. "Whitestripe, anything on the map?"  
  
The other scowled, and pulled out a sheet of parchment. Tapping his wand on it, he whispered, "I don't want a toaster." Instantly, the blank surface was replaced with the following words:  
  
Messrs. Whitestripe, Trigger, and SoftpawsPurveyors of Aids to Magical Mischief-Makers are proud to present THE MARAUDER'S MAP: THE SEQUEL  
  
The words then faded, and the ink ran over the page to form a sketchy outline of the halls of Hogwarts. Four large groups of dots were placed about the map, marking the placement of the House common rooms.  
  
'Whitestripe' looked over the map, taking note of their position. "Nobody here but us chickens," he declared before shooting a smirk at the stiff cat. "Well, and Mrs. Norris."  
  
Trigger grinned and snatched the bucket of paint from Softpaws. He pulled out a brush and merrily began writing on the stone wall. Softpaws glared at him before grabbing another brush and tossing it to Whitestripe, who caught it without looking. He set the map down and attacked the wall with gusto.  
  
Trigger shot a smirk up at the stiffened cat as he finished, tossing the brush into the bucket and incidentally splashing paint onto Whitestripe's back. The taller boy glared, and Softpaws jumped in with a quick Cleaning Charm before either of them did something rash.  
  
"You could've gotten the map!" Whitestripe hissed.  
  
"Sorry!"  
  
Whitestripe growled, picked up the map, tapped the parchment with his wand, and stated, "I have erected a monument more lasting than bronze." The map vanished, leaving behind a quick series of messages before it faded into nothingness.  
  
Messr. Whitestripe would like to thank the users of this map and hopes that it will come in handy again someday.  
  
Messr. Trigger concurs with Messr. Whitestripe, and adds that Filch is an ugly git of a squib, and so's his cat. Prank them often.  
  
Messr. Softpaws would like to add that aforementioned Mischief-Makers still have some essays to write back in Gryffindor Tower, so we should really get going.  
  
Trigger glared at the last sentance before it vanished. "Blimey, Softpaws, you enchanted the map to say that?"  
  
Softpaws grinned. "That's what you get when you don't pay attention."  
  
"Enough, you two," Whitestripe said. "Sun's coming up soon, so we really should be heading back. Animagi time."  
  
With three simultaneous pops, the trio stalked off with the invisibility cloak draped over a white tiger's back. A smaller house cat weaved its way in and out of a massive bull's hooves as the bovine walked as quietly as possible for such a huge animal.  
  
The next morning, Filch found his cat furless, dyed bright pink, and cartwheeling around the Great Hall while the tune to "It's A Small World After All" came out in yowls. On the wall nearby were the following words:  
  
THE MARAUDERS RIDE AGAIN  
  
BEWARE WHITESTRIPE, TRIGGER, AND SOFTPAWS, ALL YE UGLY GITS WHO PLAGUE THESE HALLS  
  
In smaller print, underneath, it read: THIS MEANS YOU, SNAPE.  
  
Above it all was a ten-foot-tall rendering of a fist, with the middle finger sticking up.  
  
At the Gryffindor table, the students were in hysterics. Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, and Ron Weasley all looked at each other. Harry winked, and they raised their goblets in a toast. "To tradition!" they all called, and drank.  
  
The End!  
  
Author's Guide to Latin:  
  
Stercus accidit - Sh** happens 


End file.
